


Every Hurdle Feels Higher

by upallnightstrungtight



Series: transgression [1]
Category: Super Junior, Super Junior-M
Genre: Experimental, M/M, Mental Illness, mildly canon-divergent AU, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upallnightstrungtight/pseuds/upallnightstrungtight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't do anything but keep pressing forward. (how it didn't happen, side A, told in skips and summaries)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Hurdle Feels Higher

He’s exhausted, but he still can’t stop thinking. Maybe he’s been cursed. _That doesn’t actually happen, does it? No, that’s only in the movies._ He has to hide better, and he knew what he was getting himself into, at least a little. So he remakes himself, so tiny that the shape of his bones becomes nearly irrelevant. Not the first thing he’s had to do that hurts like hell, and this is definitely one that comes with the territory. _New, new, everything’s new_ , his heart thumps, his head pulses, his veins sing.

An age of innocence ago, he pointed at the TV and said, “Mom! That’s what I’m gonna do!” His mother smiled and told him that he’d better start practicing. It would be years and years before he understood why she looked sad as well. Of course his parents approved; now that he’s here, he can see how easy it is to hide his… eccentricities. Body image issues were unsurprisingly understandable, so “shyness” about showering or changing in front of others didn’t come off as all that strange. Not _not_ strange, but not unforgivably so, since he hasn’t been kicked to the curb, and the teasing is worlds better than the alternative. _I don’t think normal people choose this life to begin with. I definitely haven’t met one yet…_ A pretty boy with a few effeminate tendencies can hide in plain sight. He looks back - doctors, medication, homeschooling, paperwork, sore throat and aching fingers, pushing, always pushing for more - and starts to gain an inkling about maybe why he doesn’t have any siblings.

And why’s everyone so _touchy-feely_ , anyway? It’s strange and super awkward, not to mention that with all this jumping and whatnot, it’s already hard to get _certain things_ to stay in place even with obscenely tight underwear and uncomfortable straps, and getting randomly jostled around on top of that is _not_ helping. (And really, even if he’s trying to avoid showing anyone, _ever_ , it could stand to be less of a nightmare to find one of these in his skin tone.) He breathes deeply and tugs his sleeves back down over his wrists. He’s barely gotten started, and this _has_ to last longer. It's all he’s ever wanted.

*

 _don’t stare don’t stare don’t stare you are_ polite _and_ friendly _and will make him feel welcome but_ don’t fucking stare _what are you_ doing _idiot you’re acting like you’ve never seen a foreigner before_ smile smile keep smiling

*

When the restless energy overwhelms him, he cleans, no matter that he’s already been scolded for that, and when he’s full of useless, undirected anger, he takes it out on uncomplaining produce. He gets scolded for that, too, that he’s there to sing, not cook, but it makes his members, his new _family_ , so happy, even for just a minute, that he can’t bring himself to care. Slowly, it becomes a way to give him time to think, catch up on shows, smooth out what staring at a piece of paper or a screen can’t manage. The motions are sort of… meditative.

He’s also gotten more used to that whole touchy-feely thing. Little bit. Y’know, go along to get along.

*

_It’s not fair. If they hated me, at least there’d be a reason, but he hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s not right and it’s not **fair!**_

*

All around him, chatter’s liberally punctuated by cheers and praise to a steady rhythm of cups clinking together. For the first time, his limbs feel only vaguely connected to him. He flings out his arms and spins around, stumbling, a bit dizzy, feeling the air flow cool and buoyant over his hands. Smiling hurts but he can’t stop, doesn’t want to.

“I love you,” he says at least two dozen times to different faces, too excited, too _happy_. “You know that I love you, right?” Harsh burn turns to pleasant warmth in his stomach. He doesn’t even care if he has to do the same dance for the next decade. Only this moment truly exists.

_We made it._

*

Donghae just barely held his wrist, but he couldn’t help but hiss in pain. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry. Let me see.”

“No, I’m fine,” he says through a yawn, trying and failing to push Donghae away. Tired beyond thinking, he’d put the cream on with one eye half-open and the other still mostly refusing, not only over the same spot as yesterday but also over the scrape he’d completely forgotten about. That parcel of skin is now unhappy in red patches. He’s drained, listless, utterly pathetic. Donghae’s eyes widen.

“Are you sick? Is it contagious?”

“No, no, I… allergy… um, makeup sample. It must’ve had something weird in it.” Caring and being cared for is more satifying than he expected, and while he’s found that it suits him, it has certainly has its drawbacks.

“Why’d you put it on your wrist?”

“I was testing it,” he says with a pout, his pulse shooting up. _It’s such a small lie, please, please…_

“Well, okay,” Donghae grimaces, “just keep it covered up. It’s gross.” He beams, pats Ryeowook’s shoulder and takes out his phone, tapping his foot as he scrolls.

*

At this point, what does one more made-up story matter? Image is everything.

*

“Do you ever feel… different than other people?” Idle chatter time with Henry has suddenly turned from squids to serious. The topic feels likely to push the boundaries of his growing language proficiency, but he’s never seemed the type to back down from a challenge.

“Honestly? Every day. I don’t know if there’s anything normal about me.” Ryeowook sighs, all too aware, in numbered list form with subordinate bullet points. Changing has been a huge failure thus far, and he considers giving up his efforts altogether.

“I think, maybe… normal doesn’t exist. Everyone tries hard to please others, but if I worry too much about what other people think, I’m very unhappy. Happiness is important too. If I’m different, that’s just who I am.”

Each word is measured, as if it was put together just for him. It’s lovely. Ryeowook decides to move improving his English up on his priority list; he’s never felt so keenly that he’s missing out on much more than he’s realized. For some reason, he can’t meet Henry’s eyes when he says, “Yeah, happiness is very important.”

*

“Here, eat something,” he said (over and over again, outward push to ignore his own gnawing ache, over and over again).

*

“Why do you always lock your door lately?” Kyuhyun asks him with a blank expression. He’s never suffered from a surfeit of hesitation.

“That’s none of your business. Anyway, you’re one to talk.” He’s been perpetually irritated and doesn’t want to think about anything right now. It’s lasted for multiple days. Kyuhyun grimaces and steps closer.

“Someone’s pissy today. What if we need to wake you up?”

“It’s called knocking. If you’re worried, you can knock really, really hard.” There’s a bed ten steps away, the only place he wants to be right now. Everyone and everything is _in his way_. He pinches the dip above his nose and suppresses the urge to end this conversation by cursing until he’s left alone.

“…Are you okay? This isn’t normal for you.” Kyuhyun’s no longer looking upset, but distressed. Worried? Ryeowook’s feeling a bit blurry and might be wobbling, it’s hard to tell. He sighs. _Should I?_ The impulse only lasts three punches of his heart against his ribcage.

“Sorry. Just tired.” He dredges up a flickering bare bulb of a smile; if he can’t act decently towards Kyuhyun, he can at least guard his friend and everyone else from himself. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, okay?”

*

 _I can do this_ , he thinks, turning the page while shaking out his cramping hand. Each tone is carefully written, contrasting with the rough fury of his desperation to be liked, wanted, needed. _I can prove myself. I can be valuable._ _It’s important and I can do this._

*

It’s not like _that_ , no way, it’s just that Henry is talented and hardworking and fun and cute and smells good- no, that can’t be right, but there was that one time right out of the shower- no. Bad. Moving on. It’s just a transient new-person-related overenthusiasm, it always eases up soon enough, and anyway, he’s just showing normal, friendly affection. That’s **all**. He’s gone through the new person phase with plenty of others.

Besides, even if he were to purely hypothetically consider it, dating within his group isn’t in the plan and could be disastrous. This is _stupid_ , it’s like the first buildup of hormones hitting all over again, when his eyes were drawn to broad shoulders and graceful necks and narrow hips and strong thighs, when he was completely lacking in finesse about it, had all the subtlety of a runaway train. His stomach clenches with a fresh wave of terror and he curls in on himself, the heels of each palm pressing into his eye sockets until he sees constellations of colors. He tugs his blanket closer to his face, firmly deciding to never think about this again.

*

He stares at the screen, deeply personal words made distant by being only that. The longing to see actual faces, faces like his with stories and feelings like his, rarely but powerfully overtakes him. He shuts it down.

*

The night market was fun, but nights are hardest and it’s good to be back within the safety of walls and relative privacy. Recorded voices barely above the volume of unintelligible flow from the TV and into his ear, soothing without the need for a response. The back of his head is resting on Henry’s thigh, just above the knee, a too-warm hand tracing circles all along his shoulder and even up his neck. _Deep breaths. One, two, in, out. Good._ “Hey, I know you’ve had a lot of troubles, and…” Flustered, he slams his eyes shut, having intended to say something lighter, but it can’t be undone. Henry’s hand stills, resting solid and heavy and distracting as hell. “Do you ever,” he breaks the relative silence, quiet and hesitant, “that is, feel like it’s hard to trust people?” In the lull that follows, Ryeowook acutely feels every point where Henry’s fingers spread out from his collarbone to his side, and he excoriates that part of himself that pushes and experiments and flies ahead of his good sense.

“Yeah, it can be scary, but it’s important, too. Sometimes, you have to do scary things because… because they’re good things to do.” He sends a squeeze and a soft smile down to Ryeowook, who’s braved his eyes back open. It’s comforting, optimistic, unwinding the constant tight coil he carries inside him a few precious turns.

“Right. That makes sense.” _Henry deserves so much better than he’s gotten._ Ryeowook wants to get the words out, but they’re stuck in his throat; he thought that was a metaphor, but the tightness he feels stilling his vocal chords is all too real. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to risk Henry taking his hand away, doesn’t want this moment to ever end.

“I’m, well, I’m glad this isn’t over. The group, I mean. It’s hard, but it’s also nice, you know?” Henry’s switched to resolutely looking at the TV, so Ryeowook doesn’t press, looks away as well. He remembers being that age, not that it was so very long ago, objectively, and how everything could feel huge and difficult at times. “And it’s good to, um, well… get to spend time with you, too.”

Something about that is too heavy for him to handle, no matter that he’ll hear it in his head on repeat for the next week. “Even when my cooking’s bad?” He looks up from his headrest with an exaggerated pout.

“It’s okay, I forgive you.” Henry’s smirk is back. It’s as comfortable as if it’d never left, lying in wait for any opportunity. Ryeowook unleashes a volley of pokes targeting his stomach.

“Hey! You jerk, you’re not supposed to agree!” For a moment, he forgets how far from home he is. If he could hear that bright burst of laughter every day, he would follow it absolutely anywhere. A storm of bubbles surges up from his chest to join in.

*

There’re days when, on top of too much to do, there’s too much inside as well. He’s filled with _shame, wrong, everything’s wrong, you’ll mess up, you’ll get caught, they’ll find you and it’ll all be over right now, they’ll all hate you, the whole world, the **whole world** ,_ breaths shallow and fast, every noise on the entire floor amplified until there’s nothing but fear and ache and cacophony and he can’t _think_. Those are the days that he escapes to a hotel room to rebuild his face. It’s small, impersonal, the do not disturb respected and he can sleep through the crash back down. When his alarm blares him awake, he’s unhappy about it but he can go on for a little while longer.

This is the whirlwind of the years. His naiveté is long gone, he’s tired and lonely, and this neverending revolving door of faces makes his head spin. _Is this what growing up is about?_

*

“I come bearing gifts,” he says, his warmth and anticipation sitting unguarded for easy viewing. “Just some snacks.” It’s been too long since he and Sungmin synched up some time. Even the best listener needs an ear occasionally.

Sungmin’s answering grin is full of mirth. “What do you need, brat?”

“Your wisdom, great teacher.” Ryeowook eases himself down to the floor, sitting cross-legged, pressing his fingers into the stiff muscles of his thighs and lower back. Neither rehearsal nor the gym have been kind to him lately. “Sungmin-hyung,” he starts, noticing a tiny wince but filing it away to puzzle over later, “how do you handle it?”

“Handle what, exactly?”

Ryeowook looks around again, even though they’re alone, and drops his voice to a whisper. “Dating.”

“Oh! Well, I mean… We’re doing well, but being an idol isn’t forever. There’s a lot of life to live after, too, so if you put everything else off, you end up starting all over. You can’t have everything, but you can try to have fewer regrets. Me, I’m…” A pause of several seconds of fingers drumming on a kneecap joined by sad, distant eyes. Ryeowook fidgets to stay attentive. “I’ve always wanted kids, so I can’t really put it off any longer.” Sungmin sighs. “Sometimes, you hurt your loved ones along the way. You can’t avoid that because we’re human beings. Just do your best, alright?”

 _There’s something wrong,_ he thinks with an ache, seeing a certain too-familiar sorrow. Ryeowook shuffles over to press his hand over Sungmin’s. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Please.” The plate remains untouched throughout the silence of their hug as well.

*

_I miss you. I miss seeing your smile and hearing your voice every day. I miss your kindness, your silliness, your mistakes, your teasing, your bad habits, your courage. I miss how everything’s an adventure with you. I miss boosting your confidence, soothing your worries, goofing off with you, cheering you on. I even miss feeding you - how ridiculous is that? I miss being able to give you everything. I miss you so much it hurts. ImissyouImissyouImissyouImissyou._

*

What sucks about being around love songs all the time is that you never get to stop thinking about it, and _this_ is definitely going to get in the way. Still, that’s not why he needs to talk to someone - he just feels so agonizingly _alone_ sometimes, years and years of it. He doesn’t exactly like keeping secrets, but he’s been one his whole goddamned life. He goes to talk to Heechul, thinking that if anyone might understand, it'd be him. There’s no one else he’s ever known who’s quite the same, no issues defying expectations or flouting convention.

He looks at Heechul’s tired eyes and too-short hair, wondering if this is the wrong time, or if there’s even such a thing as a right time. “Are you busy?” He makes himself ask. _I’ve had a good run, I can handle ruin now_ , he thinks unreasonably. At the same time, he itches to turn back, but he’s tired too, and Heechul is suddenly on high alert, catching the scent of a secret about to surface. Ryeowook feels like he answers endless questions that grow increasingly strange and tangential and his mouth is starting to feel dry and oh god why is Heechul suddenly talking about scoping out Henry’s feelings for him what the hell just happened?!

“What?! Hyung! No!” _Oh **no**. Telling him something like this is as good as giving him permission to meddle, isn’t it. I’m so stupid! And I didn’t even say anything about that!_ Waving desperately, he can feel his mouth opening and closing like a puppet out of synch with its dialogue, scrambling to say something to stop this fiasco and coming up short.

Heechul sighs with the put-upon air of a frustrated parent talking to an obstinate child. “Look, there's obviously a reason you came to talk about this-“

“But-“

“-and you've been looking at Henry like that-“

“Wait-”

“-since the first time you laid eyes on him. I'm an **expert** at such things. Two weeks and I'll know anything worth knowing. Now get going, my adoring public awaits.” Heechul shoos him out, feeling distinctly like a pet he’s no longer interested in entertaining, and turns back to his laptop.

“But that wasn’t even the point!” He claps his hand over his mouth, eyes impossibly wider with shock, and kind of wants to throw up. Heechul’s smug expression is the opposite of helpful. _And that was as good as agreeing_. _There isn’t enough profanity in the **world** for this_. Sighing, Ryeowook does, indeed, get going, wondering what he just got himself into. _Why did I even open my mouth? Am I actually an idiot?_ Even as he thinks that, there’s a palpable lightness spreading through him. He turns back and flings his arms around Heechul in a clumsy hug. He’s not actually much of a hugger, okay? It just keeps coming up lately.

“Oh? Are you finally appreciating my efforts? It’s about time,” Heechul says with an undercurrent of barely-controlled laughter.

“I’m being nice right now,” Ryeowook replies sweetly, “to catch you off guard when I have to kill you. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Ah, true love, is it? Then I can’t have any limitations on my quest,” Heechul says with that same stupid smug snarky countenance. “Besides, you do a great job of embarrassing yourself, you don’t need my help. You think I haven’t seen some of those shows?” Ryeowook glares and shoves him, but his chair has wheels, so it’s not as effective as it could be. He’s still laughing when he bumps the wall.

“I’ll murder you in your sleep~!” Ryeowook calls back on his way out.

Two weeks and three days later, on the count of gut-churning anxiety o’clock because _they’re not even alone, what is he **thinking**_ , Heechul gives him an unreserved okay, voice low and fond, and a glare-ignoring hair ruffle. _He’s so lucky mine wasn’t done yet._

“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” Heechul says with a noble affectation. “You’re a _very_ lucky man, Kim Ryeowook. Don’t fuck it up.” Even after Heechul leaves to wreak havoc elsewhere, he’s still stuck in a daze and the loop of his thoughts, flitting around with every blink. _But- What if- How do I-_ His small talk has a small delay for several minutes.

*

There’s no amount of makeup that can cover how his lines are wrong, the places that are too small or too wide, how there’re at least three ideals that he can’t live up to. He feels profoundly ungrateful dwelling on these thoughts, but it doesn’t change anything else. He has a hundred plans and not a single one works on this.

*

Of course, Ryeowook managed to forget how... direct Henry could be sometimes. Like now, for instance, tiptoeing into his room and closing the door behind him. “Surprise!” It’s a very quiet surprise.

“Hi!” Trying to pretend that he’s not very, very happy with this hug is a futile effort. To avoid embarrassing himself just yet, he steps back out of it, then realizes he should probably be suspicious. On second thought, he _is_ suspicious and lets that show instead of the thrum of his nerves. “Wait, what’re you doing here? You didn’t even text me first. What’s broken _this_ time?”

"Nothing, I swear! It’s just that… Well…” Henry looks over each shoulder as if something’s going to jump out and sink its claws into him. “Hyung, is something wrong with Heechul? You’re the only one I can trust to give me a straight answer. He keeps talking to me about gender and clothes and the power of love. I don’t get it! He does whatever he wants anyway, so why is he asking me what I think?"

Ryeowook sighs for the hundredth time, wishing he could burrow into the ground and find a time machine that would let him never have dealt with this in the first place. He’s really, really, really not ready for this. _I clearly know the only man in the world with no upper limit to his hotness. Damnit, self, that’s not helpful. Focus. Use your words. Relevant ones._ "That's… my fault." _Fantastic. Truly worthy of a hidden gem._

While Ryeowook’s trying to figure out if it’s possible to punch your internal monologue, Henry doesn’t look any less perplexed, forehead scrunched and lips pursed. "…Why? Does he want to date you? I thought he already has a boyfriend."

"Me? What?!” Ryeowook squawks. “No, he doesn't like me!"

"I don't think he wants to date **me** , and I really don't think he's looking for fashion advice." The discordant thought of Heechul asking _anyone_ for fashion advice is almost enough to distract Ryeowook from dealing with this, but he’s backed himself into a corner. Sure, he could claim something outrageous, could even probably get away with it, but that would definitely fall under the rubric of “fucking it up”. He must look as terrified as he feels, because Henry asks him, haltingly, with a tentative touch to his elbow, “Did something… happen? What’s… going on?”

“No, it’s just… _Fuck_.” Digging his nails into his palm, Ryeowook takes a deep breath. He’s sick of hiding. Completely and utterly sick of it. “You’ve been brave a lot, so it’s my turn now.”

“It’s way too late to scare me away,” Henry says with a touch of humor, looking at him fondly.

Somehow, that only ratchets up the terror, certain that this’ll be his last pleasant memory before his life implodes. Ryeowook summons all his rusty, creaking courage, concentrating it into his voice and leaving none for the set of his shoulders or the direction of his gaze, both drooping downward. "I like you and I don't know if you like me but Heechul thinks you do and if he’s right then you should know that my body is different," he blurts out all at once to the floor, words smashed together like the train wreck that is his entire life, completely lacking in the confidence he’d hoped to gain by now. Cursing the relentless pounding that drives him to this kind of sheer absurdity, he can feel the heat in his cheeks and gives in to hiding his face in his hands. _Forget dating, I'm never doing this again. I'll just be alone forever._ He feels Henry nudging his knuckles, finally peeking back out to see a big, goofy grin.

"I like you a lot, actually. But, if you've been hiding tentacles this whole time, that might be too much."

Ryeowook groans. _Completely ridiculous._ "You don't make anything easy for me, do you."

"You wouldn't like me if I did," Henry sing-songs, that damn cheeky little cutiepie.

"Fine. I don't have tentacles,” Ryeowook says, more sharply than he wanted. Henry makes him so damn _nervous_ sometimes. “It's just..." He has to build this up all over again, steady the shaking and take deep breaths. His eyes start stinging; _damnit_ , now he's worried he might cry. "I don't have what I'm supposed to have... there," he finally says, gesturing towards his crotch.

"Oh! Transgender!" Henry lights up like he’s just solved a math problem, thoroughly pleased with himself. The English origin of the word is clear in the incongruent way the sounds flow together. "Now I understand. Heechul makes a lot more sense now. You had me worried for a minute, like it was going to be a horror movie." He raises his hands into claw shapes. “What sort of beast hides beneath this man’s clothing?” He tilts his head and grimaces. “Wait, that sounds like a porno.”

Ryeowook breaks down into peals of laughter. He might be overdoing it due to sheer relief. “You’re absolutely ridiculous!”

Henry’s toothy smile shines out. “You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

Ryeowook didn’t think he was cold, but he must’ve been, because suddenly, there’s warmth. There’s the warmth of Henry’s fingers holding his chin, the warmth of lips against his own, the sunburst of arousal flaring hot and sharp within him.

*

 _Maybe the saying about the straw shoe isn’t so far off._ Whatever he owes Heechul now, he will offer it gladly.

*

Henry runs a hand through his hair, tension radiating from him. "I have to admit, I've never really... dealt with this up close before." Still, he continues rocking their hips together, slow and firm, the smooth slide of fabric easing the flow of their convergence. He’s a glorious vision to behold, from his pleading gaze to his plush mouth, falling slack around his audible exhales, through even his ugly t-shirt and down to the slight trembling of his arm, holding himself up just enough. “You have to,” he starts, breathy and breathtaking, “tell me what’s okay.”

“Right now, this is good. It’s really good,” Ryeowook manages to whisper, throbbing, distracted, thinking about how quiet they have to be and wishing desperately that there was somewhere better to go. Since that would require stopping, it’s absolutely out of the question. His hands are quite comfortable in his lover’s back pockets, squeezing his ass and bringing him closer to push up against him harder. It’s thriling that he can do that now, and the solid give of it is incredible. He thinks, _Maybe. Maybe…_ This intensity, this bulldozing over his common sense is embarrassing but worrying is for _laterlaterlater_. Tomorrow, there’s already no time. “Can I touch you?” Ryeowook asks, squeezing his hand into the nonexistent space between them.

*

The smooth line over Henry’s waist and hip, curving into the gentle slope of his thigh slowly falling towards his knee, was surely made for Ryeowook to sketch with the pad of his index finger, a languorous patrol making its rounds. Little else can keep him as present as he is in this moment - and just like that, it’s gone. He harrumphs, wishing his brain would stay shut off for more than a minute. “I don’t wanna let you go, ever, but you probably need to get going, right?” _Mine_ , he thinks but doesn’t say, not yet bold enough to push that far.

“Yeah, but… li’l more. Not yet. Hey, whaddyou think,” Henry says, between languid breaths and tracing one slow fingertip over the knuckles of the hand now wandering in circles near his navel, “about going to the beach?”

“Hm… I’ll put you on the schedule for next year. Maybe we’ll get to go somewhere warm.” They grin wryly at each other. Ryeowook’s softens first, heavy-lidded and a pleasant tension along the ridge of his brow, Henry’s matching him as a signal from a lighthouse changes a ship’s course. One damp palm curling over his cheek is all it takes for his heart to explode.

“Wanna know something?”

“Hmm? What is it?”

“You almost made me think my radar was broken. I was seriously wondering if you were ever gonna make a move, especially since at one point, I could’ve sworn you and Donghae were fighting over me,” Henry murmurs, impish, a scintilla of amusement woven through his words.

Ryeowook lets out a huff, very much _un_ amused. “No, Donghae just wants to be everyone’s favorite, even though it’s obvious who’s first in _his_ heart. If that’s what you thought, though… It’s just…” He makes himself keep eye contact. “Why not him?”

“Because he’s not _you_ , dummy.” There aren’t going to be any internal organs left, at this rate, just a pile of mush. A very, very happy pile of mush. “There’s a saying, I don’t know how well I can translate it, but it’s about how the heart does what it wants, whether it makes any sense or not. I don’t mean that you don’t make sense, I mean… Can I start over?”

With the remaining hand, his darling makes a valiant attempt to groom him back to halfway decent. While commendable, he’s already got a comb marked on his mental minimap for when he can bring himself to move that far. “Not allowed. You’re too cute when you’re flustered,” Ryeowook answers, beaming.

“Hmph. Fine,” Henry says, his glare without heat dissipating like a mirage. “Okay, it’s like… Even when I’m really busy or having fun, there’s a part of me that misses you. Like it tugs me back, but, I like it. I like thinking about how you’re doing, hoping that you’re happy, you know? You give me a place to come back to.” His thumb brushes a soft stroke below Ryeowook’s eye, somehow more intimate than anything else thus far. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking, close and attentive, or his hint of a smile, growing with his cheeks, or the way he’s touching Ryeowook like he’s something precious and rare.

 _You see me_ , Ryeowook thinks, overwhelmed with the weight of it, desperately needing another dose of Henry’s mouth pressed to his. He takes it. Then he takes one more, and another, and one last one to tide him over for who knows how long. They have to leave at _some_ point, after all. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I just wanna give you every single thing you want and I’m gonna shut up now.” _I love you_ sticks in his chest, three simple syllables suddenly fraught with peril like never before, the depth of them inescapable. One day, he’ll decide whether he can’t keep his mouth shut or can’t talk at all. Henry chuckles and pulls him close, arms squeezing securely around him, his temple and cheek pressed against a stretch of neck and shoulder that he barely refrains from tasting, sweat and five AM alarms be damned.

“For the record, I think you’re pretty great,” Henry tells him, gentle, quiet, just for him. “You’ve been watching out for me this whole time, and I can’t thank you enough. But give me the chance to return the favor once in a while, okay?” The edge of Ryeowook’s cheek tingles with what has to be the last kiss for now, judging by the clock he cranes his neck to look at afterwards, one for the road.

“Of course,” he says. “Do you want something to eat before you go, though?” His motives may not be the purest, but this is one joy he doesn’t have to deny himself. With the way he can’t stop smiling, he’s going to get hell for this for _weeks_. It’ll be worth every second.

Before, he would wonder, with an idle fatalism, when everything would come crashing down. At the worst of times, he would speculate how long this could go on and felt detached from the consequences he imagined, the numbness more unsettling than the terror. Now, he realizes with a jolt, he can’t pinpoint when that feeling left him. Everything that’s changed has changed him as well. _Somehow, things will turn out okay, even if it’s just us. No matter what I have to do, I’ll make it okay._


End file.
